Songs of Friendship | Page 8

the "drop," and the
frescoed wall;
The sudden flash of the lights; and oh,
The orchestra,
with its melody,
And the lilt and jingle and jubilee
Of "The Little
Man in the Tinshop"!
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For Uncle showed me the "Leader" there,
With his pale, bleak
forehead and long, black hair;
Showed me the "Second," and "'Cello,"
and "Bass,"
And the "B-Flat," pouting and puffing his face
At the
little end of the horn he blew
Silvery bubbles of music through;

And he coined me names of them, each in turn,
Some comical name
that I laughed to learn,
Clean on down to the last and best,--
The
lively little man, never at rest,
Who hides away at the end of the
string,
And tinkers and plays on everything,--
That's "The Little
Man in the Tinshop"!
Raking a drum like a rattle of hail,
Clinking a cymbal or castanet;

Chirping a twitter or sending a wail
Through a piccolo that thrills me
yet;
Reeling ripples of riotous bells,
And tipsy tinkles of triangles--

Wrangled and tangled in skeins of sound
Till it seemed that my
very soul spun round,
As I leaned, in a breathless joy, toward my

Radiant uncle, who snapped his eye
And said, with the courtliest
wave of his hand,
"Why, that little master of all the band
Is 'The
Little Man in the Tinshop'!

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[Illustration: The orchestra, with its melody]
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"And I've heard Verdi, the Wonderful,
And Paganini, and Ole Bull,

Mozart, Handel, and Mendelssohn,
And fair Parepa, whose matchless
tone
Karl, her master, with magic bow,
Blent with the angels', and
held her so
Tranced till the rapturous Infinite--
And I've heard arias,
faint and low,
From many an operatic light
Glimmering on my
swimming sight
Dimmer and dimmer, until, at last,
I still sit,
holding my roses fast
For 'The Little Man in the Tinshop.'"
Oho! my Little Man, joy to you--
And _yours_--and _theirs_--your
lifetime through!
Though _I've_ heard melodies, boy and man,

Since first "the show" of my life began,
Never yet have I listened to

Sadder, madder, or gladder glees
Than your unharmonied
harmonies;
For yours is the music that appeals
To all the fervor the
boy's heart feels--
All his glories, his wildest cheers,
His bravest
hopes, and his brightest tears;
And so, with his first bouquet, he
kneels
To "The Little Man in the Tinshop."
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[Illustration: Tommy Smith--headpiece]
TOMMY SMITH
Dimple-cheeked and rosy-lipped,
With his cap-rim backward tipped,

Still in fancy I can see
Little Tommy smile on me--
Little
Tommy Smith.
Little unsung Tommy Smith--
Scarce a name to rhyme it with;
Yet
most tenderly to me
Something sings unceasingly--
Little Tommy
Smith.

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On the verge of some far land
Still forever does he stand,
With his
cap-rim rakishly
Tilted; so he smiles on me--
Little Tommy Smith.
Elder-blooms contrast the grace
Of the rover's radiant face--

Whistling back, in mimicry,
"Old--Bob--White!" all liquidly--
Little
Tommy Smith.
O my jaunty statuette
Of first love, I see you yet.
Though you smile
so mistily,
It is but through tears I see,
Little Tommy Smith.
But, with crown tipped back behind,
And the glad hand of the wind

Smoothing back your hair, I see
Heaven's best angel smile on me,--

Little Tommy Smith.
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TOM VAN ARDEN
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
Our warm fellowship is one
Far too
old to comprehend
Where its bond was first begun:
Mirage-like
before my gaze
Gleams a land of other days,
Where two truant boys,
astray,
Dream their lazy lives away.
There's a vision, in the guise
Of Midsummer, where the Past
Like a
weary beggar lies
In the shadow Time has cast;
And as blends the
bloom of trees
With the drowsy hum of bees,
Fragrant thoughts and
murmurs blend,
Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
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Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
All the pleasures we have known

Thrill me now as I extend
This old hand and grasp your own--

Feeling, in the rude caress,
All affection's tenderness;
Feeling,
though the touch be rough,
Our old souls are soft enough.

So we'll make a mellow hour:
Fill your pipe, and taste the wine--

Warp your face, if it be sour,
I can spare a smile from mine;
If it
sharpen up your wit,
Let me feel the edge of it--
I have eager ears to
lend,
Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
Are we "lucky dogs," indeed?
Are
we all that we pretend
In the jolly life we lead?--
Bachelors, we
must confess,
Boast of "single blessedness"
To the world, but not
alone--
Man's best sorrow is his own!
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And the saddest truth is this,--
Life to us has never proved
What we
tasted in the kiss
Of the women we have loved:
Vainly we
congratulate
Our escape from such a fate
As their lying lips could
send,
Tom Van Arden, my old friend!
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
Hearts, like fruit upon the stem,

Ripen sweetest, I contend,
As the frost falls over them:
Your regard
for me to-day
Makes November taste of May,
And through every
vein of rhyme
Pours the blood of summer-time.
When our souls are cramped with youth
Happiness seems far away

In the future, while, in truth,
We look back on it to-day
Through our
tears, nor dare to boast,--
"Better to have loved and lost!"
Broken
hearts are hard to mend,
Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
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Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
I grow prosy, and you tire;
Fill the
glasses while I bend
To prod up